Drift
by ohmydarlinggirl
Summary: "I have nightmares, you know." After Trenzalore, Clara feels adrift and the Doctor lives up to his name. (whouffle)


**Something of a quiet oneshot, post TNOTD. Enjoy, and by the way, feedback makes my day.**

"I have nightmares, you know." Clara hops up on the stool by the Doctor. The wet strands of her hair tickle the skin of her shoulders. "I don't think you got rid of it all."

The Doctor glances up from his mug. "I wouldn't have thought so, no. It was lucky you're even here in the first place. And I was so sure you were the one who was finally going to listen to me..." He sniffs, reaching for the sugar. "Shows me, eh? Getting stupid in my old age."

Clara drums her fingers on the countertop, staring around at the bright, metallic kitchen. A fragment of a song floats around her head, like a memory. The Doctor places his hand over her fingers, stilling the pattern.

"Don't," he says.

"Oh." Yes, she remembers that man. The Master. Different faces, too, but always that knock..._onetwothreefour_. Her mouth parts, air leaks out. She can see blood on the floor of a spaceship, a man in pinstripes cradling a body...

"Hey." The Doctor- this Doctor, _her_ Doctor- touches her cheek. "You're here."

"I know." Does she? "But I was there, too. Well. Am there. I saw it, you going all blue and glowy and then, boom. Out of that cage." Clara bites her thumb, and the Doctor lowers his hand. "I heard the shot, too."

His face is like ice- cold, fragile, distant. Clara tugs at the hem of her shirt and then just tries to focus on the steam rising like a sigh from the Doctor's tea. At least she thinks it's tea. Could be something completely weird; she wouldn't put it past him to be drinking juiced fish fingers or something.

It'd been a couple of weeks since Trenzalore- since the grave and the timelines and the whole scattering-herself-throughout-space-and-time bit. The Doctor had rushed her to the med bay (or so he said; she'd even dead to the world) and gotten rid of most of the mentors that crowded her mind, spoke in whispers.

But some still linger, piece by piece. Spilling into her dreams, breathing into her ear- slashes of bright red hair, a kiss made of time, bright blue eyes.

Clara shivers, and pushes the image of a dying, beautiful man away.

"Can't claim flawless memory now can you," she jokes- badly. She's always resorted to bad humor like that- which usually happens to make everything worse. "Forgetting me like that. Didn't even remember the face that pointed you towards the TARDIS."

Some barrier slides off the Doctor's face, and his eyes are warm again when he turns to smile at her. It's small, but it's there. She thanks god. "Oh, you know me. Memory of...a thing with a very bad memory."

"That's why I'm the boss," she says cheerily, swinging her feet. They don't touch the tiled floor. "You'd just land us in Hoth forty times."

"Oi! Hoth is nice. Very nice, apart from the...monsters."

"And toxic atmosphere."

He waves a hand, taking a sip of his whatever-it-is. "Goes without saying."

"So. Not that I don't love traipsing around in your past, but I don't fancy those memories there forever. Could you, you know? Fix it." She points vaguely towards her skull. A blonde girl presses her foot into the snow in Clara's head.

"No."

"Sorry?" Her eyebrows lower. "_Why_?"

"I can't." He shrugs. "Well no, I could, but then I'd run a substantial chance of turning you into a mindless lump of Clara-ness, and while I'm sure I'd appreciate the obedience-"

"Hey!"

"I don't think I'd like the drooling part quite so much."

Clara considers this. "No, I don't think that's the way to go." She sags, suddenly utterly exhausted, and presses her forehead to the counter. The Doctor pats her hair and then leaves his hand there. His fingers twine idly through the still-damp stands, the pad of his thumb just touching the rise of her neck.

"Do I just live like this then?" she asks rhetorically. "All these people in my head. I don't know how you manage."

"Barely," he replies dryly. Then he hesitates. "I can't take them away, but I can dull them. Like...those faint traces of a movie you once saw, or the blurred face of your first teacher. I can do that, if you want."

"I want," she groans. A woman in a straw hat is criticizing the Mona Lisa, and when Clara shuts her eyes, she could swear she hears the soft rush of the ocean. It's _unbearable_.

"Right," the Doctor says. He doesn't move his hand from her skin, just places the other one on her temple and leans his forehead to just barely skim hers. "Anything you don't want me seeing, just imagine a door. Tell me when you're ready."

Clara frowns, immediately shutting away some of her more...tender thoughts, memories of her being bullied, her first time having sex. Then, she exhales, and raises her fingers to touch the fabric of the Doctor's shirt, right where it meets his silly (wonderful) bow-tie.

"Okay," she murmurs. "Off we go."

It feels like drowning, she thinks dizzily, as something rushes into her mind, gently overturning thoughts, rooting up things long left alone. She can feel her mum's arms holding her, Nina's pretty smile, sun wandering across the planes of her dad's face. "Oh," she whispers. "It doesn't feel like I thought."

"Mm." The Doctor presses closer. "Won't take long, just...just remember to keep those doors shut," he says quickly, almost amusedly, and Clara realises that joy of joys, the memory of her first time has escaped. Embarrassed, she shoves the fingertips on her skin and sweaty kisses away.

The Doctor laughs. She doesn't.

Seconds- or maybe minutes- tick past seamlessly, and then quite without warning, the Doctor draws himself back and leaves her head. Clara sways, missing an anchor, and falls forward, straight onto the Doctor.

"Oops," he mutters, hoisting her upright, and then keeping an arm around her waist. "Should've said something."

"That might've been nice, yeah."

"Everything better?" he asks, a bit worriedly, green eyes flicking over her face. "Should be, at any rate. You had quite a lot in there."

Clara closes her eyes, and searches her mind for any remaining, lost pieces. Maybe there's something, she thinks, maybe a Roman soldier or, or a woman with dark skin, but...but she can't place anything. Nothing bombards her, hisses and spits at her insides.

"Fine," she says. "Thanks."

"My pleasure. Well, my tea's gone cold, so no, it's not, but anyway." The Doctor slowly lets go of her. Clara rubs at her bare arms, and watches him. "There's a planet with mermaids, you know." He spins around on the swivelly stool, and hops off.

"Real life mermaids?" she asks. Really, she doesn't have to; she's already sold. "With tails and everything?"

"One way to find out," he says, and holds out his hand. "Come on boss."

"Call me that again," she teases, but grabs his hand anyway, letting him tug her off the chair and out of the kitchen.

"Oi. Your luck is so far pushed it's falling off a cliff."

She wraps an arm around his waist as they walk. "Might as well take the plunge then."

"Too smart for your own good."

"More than can be said for you."

The Doctor laughs properly, returning her embrace with an arm weighing down her shoulders. Clara grins as they reach the console room.

"Onwards and upwards then," she decides.

"And sideways," the Doctor adds, kissing her forehead before letting go of her to pilot the TARDIS. "And diagonally, ooh and backwards."

"If you insist."

He looks up, alight, bursting energy. "Oh," he says, "I do."

And inside Clara's head, her stolen memories sleep peacefully on, lost in the face of adventures and running and cups of tea.

Much better that way, really.


End file.
